


Rescue me and I'll never be the same

by dragon_rider



Series: Hold on to me and never let me go [2]
Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've both lost someone, but can they find each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue me and I'll never be the same

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. This is me doing things right and posting this as a side story instead of a chapter.
> 
> Also yes, this is a series now so I get to write more about it without feeling like I'm ruining it. 
> 
> I doubt you want to, but if you like you can leave me prompts or suggestions for things you want to see in this universe.
> 
>  
> 
> **THIS WON'T MAKE SENSE UNLESS YOU'VE READ THE PREVIOUS PART OF THIS SERIES.**
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~
> 
> So [rochester](archiveofourown.org/users/rochester/pseuds/rochester) said she wanted to know how Wright and Dredd got together and things got out of control (6k words??? jfc) but I hope you like it?

_Don’t_ , Dredd tells himself as he looks at those now unknown blue eyes, eyes that once— _seconds_ ago—meant home to him. _He’s not James. He will never be James._

“Hey,” the stranger—Dredd knows his name, but doesn’t know _him_ —greets him, wiping his cheeks with a dismissive gesture before offering the same hand to him, “Alex Wright.”  
Dredd shakes Wright’s hand, the fact he’s able to feel the dampness of James’ tears making him grit his teeth. “Dredd,” he grunts, “Joseph Dredd.”

Wright nods, gives him a forced smile and tugs at the clothes he’s wearing, looking down at his body, and Dredd wants him out of his place yesterday, but can’t bring himself to kick him out.

This mess isn’t Wright’s fault.

“Do you mind if I use your computer?”  
Dredd cocks his head towards the side of the living room where he keeps it, replies, “Knock yourself out,” and decides that since Wright isn’t going anywhere then _he_ is.

This guy’s records were clean before James came in. He guesses he can trust he won’t return to an empty, mugged apartment later and gets ready to head out.

“One more thing,” he says before leaving, “You’re supposed to be on bed rest for the next ten days. If you have to go out, make it quick. Come back here if you have nowhere else to go.”

It’s not exactly an invitation. It’s not meant to be one.

He closes the door behind him without waiting for the answer.

***

He’s sore when he’s back, but knows that he needs to behave. Wright is recovering from injuries that he didn’t get but has to live with and he’s been away for too long to have anyone else to help him.

Dredd can’t afford time to recoil and lick his own wounds alone.

He peers into the living room to find Wright sleeping on the couch. He’s not only still wearing Dredd’s clothes but also covered with the duvet of his bed.

He’s quick to rouse under Dredd’s scrutiny, but can’t hide the wince that moving causes fast enough for the Judge not to see it.

A pang of something—is it guilt? Longing? Fuck if he knows—makes him pause.

“You should be in bed,” Dredd says at length, breaking the staring match to go to the kitchen. His apartment is small and blank enough for his voice to carry so he keeps talking, “I’ll take the couch, if you’re staying.”

The food he sensed since arriving greets him as he opens a pot filled with soup—noodles and vegetables, even a few pieces of meat in it; none of which he had this morning, his mind is quick to supply—and he pours it into two big cups, stabs a spoon in each of them and goes back to the living room, handing the cup to his guest as both an apology and a promise that he can actually remember how to treat another human being, if he tries hard enough.

Wright straightens up, grimaces again but takes the soup, downs three-quarters of it before speaking. “Sorry,” he says, winded, “I tried looking for a place, but things—“ he laughs then; a ragged, mirthless little sound, “Things are harsh now, man. I mean, they’ve always been harsh, but now it’s _worse_ and I didn’t think—I didn’t think that was even _possible_.”  
“Yeah,” Dredd sets his jaw, finally sits down on the coffee table and forces himself to eat.

The food is cold but manages to taste good somehow and he needs to fucking _stop_ comparing and missing James with every breath he draws in.

Was it always this painful for him? Did looking at him always remind him of McCoy this intensely?

“This is like a three-year step back,” Wright comments, rubs his face with a hand and looks more tired by the second, “Hell, scratch that, it wasn’t this bad not even back then. 25,000 crimes reported daily? Seriously?”

Dredd doesn’t exactly want to discuss how awful things are in the streets with—well, anyone. He hardly ever talks to the other Judges as it is—so he nods and goes back to the kitchen for—heated this time—refills for their meal.

He has to admit he’s fairly impressed with Wright’s knowledge of the situation in the city. He’d be more impressed if that amount of knowledge didn’t reek of illegal access to the Department of Justice’s databases but as long as he doesn’t find out the guy is using the information for illicit purposes, he’s willing to disregard it.

 “You don’t really talk much, do you?” Wright asks once they’re done eating.  
Dredd snorts, retorts, “You talk too much,” and takes everything to the sink.

Wright is curled on the couch again when he’s back. He sighs, makes a visible effort to keep his eyes open as Dredd looms over him.

“I told you—“  
“I heard you and really, thanks, but go sleep in your bed and don’t bother with me,” Wright cuts in, pointing with a slightly shaky hand towards the top level where Dredd’s bed is located, “I’m not making it past the stairs.”

Dredd doesn’t even consider letting him where he is with a healing scar and half-healed ribs. He takes the covers from him before Wright can protest and hoists him in his arms to take him up there himself.

He expects yelling and complaining but gets none of it. Wright wraps his arms around his neck and sighs instead and his warmth is the same he remembers, but it isn’t his to enjoy anymore and it _bites_. “I didn’t mean it this way but okay, show-off,” he laughs, softly this time, “Thanks.”

By the time they reach the bed, Wright is already asleep.

Dredd watches him for a long moment before snapping out of it—why would it matter if Wright sleeps on the wrong side of the bed, if he’s too buried beneath the sheets, if he doesn’t seem to miss anyone’s presence as he sighs and burrows into the pillows? He’s no one to Dredd. _No one_ —he wonders if James hid too many aches from him and his guest is currently in need of medical attention.

He guesses he’ll have to find out the hard way, if Wright collapses.

***

On the fifth day of their unspoken arrangement, Wright finds a place to live.

 _Maybe we’ll meet again_ , the note in Dredd’s computer says, signed with a simple, _Alex_.

He doesn’t regret barely being home while Wright was here. He gave him his number. He knows where he lives.

He can find Dredd if he needs help.

Dredd deletes the message and opens a can of sausages for dinner.

***

They do meet again.

Dredd is patrolling and the night is eerily uneventful in this district—which is never a good thing, more like the eye of the hurricane—and he’s about to speed away in the hopes of being close to whatever chaos that is about to erupt when he sees Wright struggling to stand as he’s flanked by four men, one of which Dredd recognizes as one of those mafia bosses you’re not supposed to come anywhere near if you have half a head on your shoulders.

Wright apparently doesn’t—or he has no idea who he’s dealing with. Either way, he’s in deep shit and Dredd won’t think about the corpse he would’ve found later if he hadn’t been at the right place at the right time.

He’s out of their line of sight and he makes the most of it, getting closer with his Lawgiver high and using a large column to conceal his presence.

“I don’t know what else you want,” Wright says.

He sounds remarkably calm for someone who’s being attacked. Dredd can’t find any obvious wounds on him, but he’s panting and leaning at least half of his weight on the wall behind him so he can’t be unharmed. Something happened before Dredd arrived. The certainty makes him scowl.

“Deal was over the second I found out you were using my theater to house—what? A bunch of retard orphans, is that it?” Miller, alias the Puppeteer has to be their leader. Dredd feels almost mild satisfaction in finally having the sly criminal at the reach of his gun. He has enough reasons to kill him on the spot, “I thought you were opening a whore house just as everyone else is, you stupid piece of shit! I figured with your pretty boy looks you’d fill it and win regular customers within the day and I could charge you extra. Don’t act as if it’s my fault you didn’t follow the plan.”  
“What I do with it is none of your business,” Wright counters, “But fine, you want more money for it, you can find someone else to rent it. I can’t pay you more, especially not for a wrecked building that’s half on the ground.”  
“That’s where you’re wrong, boy,” one of the felons Dredd doesn’t know adds, grabbing Wright by the neck, “You can make up the difference on your knees, one time for each of us.”  
“Dose him again,” Miller orders and one of them brings out a syringe, fills it quickly to the brim with a green liquid Dredd could recognize in the dark, “He’s not obeying. It should be working by now.”

Finally having a clear shot, he puts down Miller’s three bodyguards—doesn’t kill them, not yet—and comes out to the open, smirking when the now lone chief pales at catching sight of him.

“Joshua Miller, you’re guilty of murder, guilty of slavery, guilty of the manufacture and distribution of the mind-altering drug known as Dommin’. Your sentence is death. Any last words?” the fat man gapes, fumbles for words. Dredd lets him sweat for five seconds, then pulls the trigger, blowing his head from the inside out and kicks the body out of the way, “Sorry, not interested.”

Wright is sitting on the floor, bleary eyes following Dredd’s moves as he calls Control and informs them of the situation and handcuffs and secures the remaining criminals to a pole. Dredd couldn’t stop them from doping Wright again and he knows he has to get him out of here before anyone from the Department arrives, otherwise he’ll be facing two months in the iso-cubes for abuse of illegal substances and a year or two for making deals with the likes of Miller.

Wright won’t be able to lie to save his ass in the state he’s in—whoever asks him what happened will get the truth and more than that as well if they want to.

They’d only need to ask. Dommin’ neutralizes volition, forces the ones who consume it to submit to everything. That's where Miller got his street name from, from turning junkies—and apparently, anyone he wanted—into dolls.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Wright?” he barks. He’s tough in his questioning, but helps him to his feet with as much gentleness as he can muster, “Do you want to get yourself killed? Or worse _,_ do you want to be sold? That’s a trend now, I’m sure you’re aware of it.” He knows he is. He’d mentioned it the last—and only—time they talked.  
“I didn’t know,” Wright pants, swaging so much Dredd has to grasp his arms to stop him from falling, “I didn’t know he was Miller. He wasn’t like this when I met him, he—“

Damn it, they don’t have time for this. He’s slightly relieved to know none of this was on purpose, but that isn’t important, not now.

He gives the first command with pursed lips and an acrid taste in his mouth. “Shut up,” the second doesn’t come any easier, once he notices the drug has kicked in and Wright does as he’s told, “Stand up.”

It goes slower than he would’ve liked and that makes him edgy, but with another string of orders—walk with me, ride behind me, hold on tight, don’t let go until I say so—they’re ready to get away at last.

Dredd doesn’t waste another second, pushes down the accelerator and drives fast, choosing all the alleys and deserted streets he knows in order to avoid unwanted eyes on them.

It takes thrice longer than normal, but they finally reach the block where Dredd lives. “We’re here. Let go and get down. Follow me.”

This isn’t exactly standard protocol. He isn’t supposed to park his motorbike there and climb into the lift fully in uniform but he does.

Once they’re inside his apartment, Dredd instructs him to sit on the couch and checks the security system and the locks on the windows before crouching in front of him. “You have to stay here until your head is clear. Do you understand?”

Wright looks down at him, nods and Dredd curses under his breath. He needs to head back to the Grand Hall of Justice, but leaving Wright looking so confused and fucking _vulnerable_ doesn’t sit well with him.

He tells himself this is the safest place for him at the moment and walks out.

Taking advantage of him doesn’t cross his mind, not even once.

***

It takes him over a day to come back but when he does, Wright is still there.

“Do you ever sleep?” it’s his first question as Dredd comes into the kitchen. He’s in front of the stove, but Dredd can’t see what he’s doing, “I don’t think I’ve ever _seen_ you sleep.”

That has Dredd raising an eyebrow. What his sleeping habits have to do with anything is past him, but it sounds like Wright is genuinely interested.

The truth is he’s always run with just a few hours of restless sleep. The only times he slept longer than four hours where the nights he shared with James and those are gone.

“I still want answers about last night, Wright,” he says, bypassing the question with little effort, “You’re not drugged out of your mind now, so you better start talking.”  
Wright huffs, “Yeah, about that, I’m sorry,” he surprises Dredd by turning around, catching his eye before continuing, “And don’t think I don’t know you saved my ass from the iso-cubes too. You didn’t need to, but—“ he looks down, swallows and turns back to the heater, “Thank you, Dredd. I don’t usually screw up—well, not this much. It’s been harder without knowing anyone. I don’t know whether all the people I knew are dead or just hiding. That’s driving me a bit crazy.”

Dredd frowns. He’s still not getting the answers he was expecting—what the fuck Wright needed a theater for, where he got the money to pay for one—but he doesn’t press again.

He eats the eggs and the bacon Wright puts in front of him in silence.

“Since you killed the fucker, I’m going to keep the theater for a while,” Wright smiles at him, “You can stop by if you want. There’s a play on Wednesday night. It’ll be fun.”

Dredd stares at him. He could almost hear the tacit _if you remember what that is_ that Wright managed to infuse into his voice.

“C’mon,” he presses, “think you can make it?”

Dredd grunts. It’s hard to tell having three days in advance. He could be busy, but he can’t deny he’s curious. He hasn’t seen—rather, hadn’t heard of any play—ever.

“Please don’t come with your helmet on, that’s all I ask. You’ll scare the kids.”

***

He doesn’t understand what Wright said until he steps into the theater and is immediately surrounded by children and their parents—or so he assumes most of the adults are, anyway, that’s always hard to tell with people dying faster than they’re growing up—he finds an empty spot in a dark corner of the auditorium and stands there, watching as Wright goes from one place to the other with a big grin on his face as he encourages—sometimes physically pushes too—the kids to go onto the patched up stage.

The building is in good shape, considering the part of the city it’s in—nothing but ruins in miles around and Dredd once thought that’d mean less crimes rates in the district, but he soon learned he was wrong.

The Megablocks are dangerous and can be death traps—wouldn’t he know that—but the big structures at least shelter its population and link it together. Whether for good or bad, mankind needs companionship to function as much as they need feeling safe, so the people who live in the ruins are always the most brutal, violent and impulsive and they need to be put down quickly before they take a big chunk of the city with them to Hell.

But these people look nothing but cheerful and serene as they wait for the show to start. Wright mingles with them once he’s done helping the kids and they pat him on the back, keep him close with a hand clasped around his shoulders and it’s like he’s known them his whole life which Dredd knows can’t be because he just returned three months ago and Wright himself admitted to him he has no one, so how can this be?

There are at least 200 people and no disturbance happening.

Wright’s plea for him not to wear his uniform—vague and light as it was—makes sense now.

He can identify at least 50 men and women he’d put in the iso-cubes, some more than once.

They would’ve tried to rip a Judge to shreds as soon as they saw him.

***

This is no Hamlet but he can see it isn’t about the play itself. It’s about giving everyone—not only the kids—something to do, to keep them busy and make them feel useful, give them something to look forward and carry them through the day.

It’s brilliant both in its simplicity and its success. He’s still astonished when Wright comes to his side and touches him lightly on the shoulder once the clapping and whooping has quietened down.

“This was your idea,” Dredd tells him, “This is what you do. How long have you been at it?”  
“A part of it, yeah,” Wright tilts his head, stares at him for a moment, “Seven years, give or take. You’re impressed, huh? I’m flattered.”

Wright chuckles as he beckons Dredd to follow him further in. Dredd falls into step with him. They walk and oversee as everyone prepares to leave in what can only be described as high spirits.

“Sometimes it’s hard—getting supplies for the scenery, the wardrobe, or people to get excited about something that’s seemingly useless—but sometimes it’s easy, like this time. We barely did anything to this place and the kids’ clothing, but everyone is so happy it doesn’t matter,” Wright explains in a low tone, “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to tell them we could actually go to space if things weren’t so fucked-up down here.”  
“No,” he agrees. The play, which he guesses was written by the kids themselves, was about traveling to Jupiter and fighting aliens.

It had taken him a long minute to remember Wright had no idea what he had with James and thus couldn’t know watching this was not exactly his idea of fun, although witnessing what effort and faith in people can achieve was promising.

He wonders what Wright could be able to do with a real budget, wonders if his faith in humanity won’t get him killed one of these days, almost hopes it doesn’t.

***

“Joe! Glad you could make it,” he grins a little too wide, noticing instantly he screwed up and made Dredd extremely uncomfortable but it isn’t like he can get away with calling him by his last name here. The guy is a fucking legend and everyone either loves him or wants him dead. Alex can’t risk the second, not after the Judge saved his life and gave him a place to crash when he had nothing, “I’ll be right with you.”

It’s the third time they’ve seen each other, the second play Alex has invited him to. This is a different place filled with different people but the premise is the same, although this group consists of teenagers and there are even a few adults in some roles too so he can give a couple of last minute advices and sit in the back to enjoy their take of Pride and Prejudice.

“Sorry,” he says once he’s back with Dredd, sits maybe a little too close to him but can’t help it. The place is crowded as it is, there’s no room for personal space, “You can call me Alex, you know, if you want. I think you know why I can’t use your last name.”

Dredd isn’t the slightest bit shy, doesn’t squirm and try to put distance between them despite Alex is so close he can smell him—Dredd smells like leather and gunpowder, like steel that won’t break but will dent if you hit it hard enough—so close their thighs are squeezed together and Dredd’s elbow is poking his waist.

“Why Joe?” he asks gruffly, looking straight ahead to the unkempt stage as it begins getting filled.  
“Sounds like it suits you,” Alex replies, blinking and following his gaze, dropping his voice when the play starts, “If you don’t like it, I can try Jay, or—”  
“Joe will do, Alex,” Dredd—no, Joe, accepts and Alex beams at him.

Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but it feels like they’re friends already.

It’s comforting and exactly what he needs after coming back to a world more horrible than the one he remembers and that one was ugly enough. Sometimes he has problems getting up in the morning, misses the only picture he owned and kept under his pillow, the one thing that gave him strength when everything else failed.

He doesn’t have Leena’s brave and almost faded smile to give him courage, not anymore, but Joe’s company is heartening and he hopes it doesn’t turn into yet another loss, another thing he misses while he keeps going on his own.

***

It doesn’t go as smoothly as he would’ve liked, this friendship between them. At times it’s forced and Alex feels like Joe would rather have him gone, but he stands his ground, waits for the man to either kick him out or stop brooding.

Tonight he brings a pie one of the mothers of the children cooked for him. _For you and your friend_ , she’d said, winking at him. Alex had blushed and tried to give it back, knowing how hard and expensive ingredients to make pastries were, but she’d brushed him off with a shake of her head and a firm grip in his arm. _You do enough for us. Do something for yourself for a change! Go get him._

He wonders if he’s been too obvious. After almost seven months of knowing Joe and around half that time as his friend, they’ve seen each other half of it at best. Joe is a busy man, a hero. Alex is—well, he likes thinking of himself as a revolutionist, but at the end of most days, he feels too lonely for it to matter. His life has a purpose that goes beyond his own person and it weighs on him more with each day that passes.

When he realized the only days he smiled and meant it were the ones he saw Joe, he knew he was screwed.

Joe hasn’t told him, but Alex isn’t stupid. He knows something happened between the Judge and the Captain of the Enterprise, the man who inhabited his body for almost a year and everyone seemed to be enthralled with.

Sometimes he thinks he should be mad about it, but can’t bring himself to feel anything but sadness, knowing the two people he’s loved would rather have another version of him instead of the one they are—or were—stuck with.

But maybe he’s being unfair, unreasonable. Pathetic, for sure. Leena is dead and Alex can’t tell what she could’ve wanted any more than he can predict Joe’s motivations or who he looks at when he stares at Alex for longer than necessary, why he sometimes makes himself scarce and misses their appointments— _dates_ , ha, if he’s feeling daring and delusional because if he pushes it they’re friends and if he doesn’t, they’re acquaintances. Either way, Joe is everything Alex has.

He’s tried seeing the flaws in Joe, but he could have a hundred—and really, Alex has counted ten at best and they’re all variations of headstrong and harsh, which can also be virtues under the right light and Alex cherishes them more than what he curses them—and Alex wouldn’t care. He’s not looking for perfection. There’s no such thing.

He’s looking for truthfulness, for understanding and there’s no man more just than Joseph Dredd or anyone who gets the subtleties of Mega-City One and its chaos better than him but still works to defend it, still makes efforts for a doomed place because he’s loyal and incapable of giving up.

He’s cutting two slices of pie when he hears the door opening and closing with a loud slam. He knows immediately something’s up, knows he probably won’t find out what exactly it is, only that Joe is upset and wants to be left alone.

Joe steps into the kitchen and backpedals at seeing him. Alex sighs and lets him pace in the living room as he reheats leftovers from the previous days, swearing when he realizes he forgot to bring actual edible stuff to fill Joe’s fridge with.

“C’mon, Joe, dinner’s ready,” he announces, leaning against the doorframe, meeting Joe’s glare with raised eyebrows and crossed arms, “You know I’m not going anywhere, so get your ass here. There’s dessert too.”

The silence is heavy as they eat but Alex hums and ignores it. Joe doesn’t particularly approve of his method to diffuse tension—once he actually hit the table, snapping at him to stop—but Alex is of the opinion any anger Joe is harboring inside is better out in the open where they can deal with it before it gets out of control when Joe can’t keep bottling it up anymore.

“Have you ever had chocolate pie?”  
“No.”  
“Great,” Alex shoves the plate towards him, licks his fingers before grabbing a fork and digging in, “Me either.”

***

Alex has been busy, hasn’t been able to visit Joe in almost a month when they meet again in the street.

Joe is about to arrest a group of five people—two women, three men and a baby—who are robbing a store and keep grabbing things despite of the fact the alarms couldn’t be louder and it’s obvious someone has been called to send them to the iso-cubes or kill them.

Alex blocks Joe’s path and makes him bristle.

“Get out of the way,” he growls, threatens, “Or I’m taking you to the iso-cubes too. No more free passes.”  
“Get out of the way of _what?_ The law?” Alex sneers, doesn’t move an inch from where he’s standing tall and stubborn, not even when Joe advances on him and they’re practically nose to nose—rather, helmet to face. It hurts, knowing apparently they’re not friends as he thought they were, but he knows Joe is better than this, knows he won’t abuse his power and hurt starving people just because he was told to. So he taunts him, mocks him, “Oh, right, because it’s been doing such a good job at fixing this city. By all means, it seems like the smart thing to do.”

Joe doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate to pull his Lawgiver out and point him with it.

Alex doesn’t move.

“They’re hungry, Dredd. Let me try it my way,” he says. It’s not a question, not really. He’s already walking to the store where he can still hear glasses breaking, alarms blaring and urgent voices and a baby crying, “Give me five minutes and then you can do it your way, if there’s still a crime to stop and punish.”  
“You have two,” Joe calls behind him. Alex turns around, looks at him and nods.

Joe comes into the store and finds Alex picking stuff from the floor and putting it back on shelves. He’s already talked the people out of the foolishness they were doing, made them run through the back before the time ran out.

He knows Joe notices there are still a few items missing, but he doesn’t say anything. At least, not about that.

“Tell me, genius, what exactly were you going to do if it wasn’t me who was called here? Do you think any other Judge would listen to your bullshit?”  
“I’m an optimist, not an idiot, Dredd. If it wasn’t you, then they were going to the iso-cubes and I was going to see how a family was dragged away and separated,” he pauses, frowns at him, “Whatever happened to your own judgment? I thought you made exceptions sometimes. You told me you did.” _I was proud of you for that._ “This didn’t seem enough for you?”  
Joe gives him a crooked scoff before turning around and walking to the exit. “Judging the Judge is fun to you, Wright? Don’t flatter yourself. That _family_ you saved? Included a rapist, a junkie, a gambler and a hooker. But yes, they were famished, so congratulations. You’ve saved the day.”

Alex isn’t sure Joe gets to hear the first sob that makes it out of his mouth. The shame burns hot in his throat and he isn’t sure about how long he stays in the raided shop either.

Half of him hopes Joe comes back and gets him out of there because he can’t move; the weight of his mistake doesn’t let him.

It doesn’t happen.

***

Alex stops himself every time he’s about to go to Joe’s place. He knows the Judge must be pissed at him, that he won’t forget what he made him do and he has serious doubts about Joe ever forgiving him for it too. He knows he won’t forgive himself, so why Joe would?

He keeps teaching history, science and literature, giving lectures about sexual education and coaching kids to act and sing sometimes, devoting a few nights a week to walk in the underworld and try to understand what’s going on, why things keep going downhill and never up.

It’s his routine and he sometimes forget to eat—he’s never been good at cooking for one person, doesn’t see the point if he’s not even hungry—and he even tries dating a couple of times, but ends up thinking of Joe or Leena, depending on whether he picks a man or a woman to drown his misery with.

He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t do drugs. His job is everything he has and he feels selfish admitting it’s not enough so he doesn’t, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

He misses Joe, wonders how much of a fool he considered him to be in the end.  He knows he will cave eventually and go back to his apartment, but he dreads the possibility of finally being kicked out of his life, of Joe telling him that he doesn’t need him—that he never did.

***

He’s been emailing Joe the addresses of his plays. He never stopped doing that, even when he didn’t have the time to visit him, but it’s still a shock to see him one day in the back of a theater, having a conversation with a woman that clearly consists of more words than he’s ever uttered in Alex’s company and they’re touching, leaning close together, and Alex has to look away because it’s too much to take.

He thought he was past heartbroken at this point. It’s been over ten weeks, after all—and yes, fuck it, he’s been counting—but it turns out he isn’t. His chest clenches painfully and breathing through it and the jealousy is a feat, but he makes it.

If Joe is here at all it means he’s come to see him and Alex will take his friendship any day over nothing—over anything.

That Joe has a lady friend is something he’ll need to grow used to.

***

Once the play is over, he delays going to talk with Joe and his date as long as he can. He keeps talking with people, patting shoulders and cheering everybody, getting pats and hugs in return.

“You okay, sweetheart?” one of the mothers asks him, “You’re looking a bit pale.”  
“I’m fine, ma’am, thank you,” he lies, a smile firm on his lips as he navigates the crowd and braces himself to meet Joe.

He’s surprised by a strong arm encircling his waist, turning him around until he’s face to face with him and his companion.

“Hello,” he says. Tense as he is, he’s going to be polite and make himself likable and he’s going to enjoy how suddenly close Joe is to him, “I’m Alex Wright, nice to meet you.”  
“I know,” she says, grinning, sparing a glance to Joe after shaking his hand, “I’ve heard much about you, young man, and so far I’m not disappointed. What you’re doing here is remarkable and I must admit I’m intrigued by your work.”  
“She’s my boss, Alex,” Joe whispers in his ear, “She won’t introduce herself because people could hear, but I think you’re quite familiar with the Chief Judge, or you should.”  
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Wright, I’d like hearing about it. I could be interested in applying this in a larger scale, see if maybe this is what the city needs to get a push in the right direction.”

Alex gapes a little at her and he’s grateful for the arm still securing him to Joe’s side, too stunned to remember how to stand on his own for a minute. This is the chance he’s been waiting for years and as soon as they’re out of the building, he starts talking and doesn’t stop until the Chief Judge excuses herself and thanks him for his time, assuring him they will keep in touch.

Once they’re alone, Alex has to stop himself from kissing Joe but he can’t help hugging him and burying his face in his shoulder, hands gripping his leather jacket so tight he might leave marks in it.

They’re sitting in a booth at a crummy bar and they should get going because it’s late and Joe has to work but Alex can’t let go of him, not yet.

“Thank you,” he says, whispers against his neck, “Thank you for believing in me, Joe. God, I thought you—“  
“Thought that you’re an idiot?” Joe cuts in, holds him back while chuckling low in his chest, “No. Gullible? Definitely, but we can change that.”  
Alex laughs too, loving how ‘we’ sounds and grinning broadly, gratefully. “I missed you.”

His breath catches when Joe all but _nuzzles_ his temple up to his hairline. He doesn’t say I missed you too, but Alex doesn’t need to hear it, being in his arms is enough and the fact he’s there and talked with his _boss_ about him speak loud enough to make up for it too.

He doesn’t say I’m sorry either, but Alex feels it in the way Joe cups his face almost reverently and looks at him right in the eyes before leaning in to kiss him.

It only takes two pecks for Alex to climb into his lap and open his mouth. There are some catcalls in the background, but Joe keeps him right where he is, tongue licking his bottom lip before slipping in, a hand firm on the small of his back and the other still on his left cheek, thumb softly tracing his cheekbone.

“Come home with me,” Joe breathes. Alex can only nod, lips tingling, and he gasps when Joe unceremoniously and effortlessly grabs him by the thighs and stands up after throwing some credits on the table.  
“Show-off,” he teases, clinging to his neck as Joe walks to the door.

He has no intentions of putting his feet on the ground, not until Joe decides he’s had enough of him.

Hopefully, that won’t happen any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Dredd's apartment looks kinda like this  
>   
> (except less pretty).


End file.
